


What's in a Name?

by raiyana



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Morning After, Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 21:41:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14090259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Fëanor was always fascinated by Nerdanel's freckles... the stars in her skin form constellations all her own - or are they?





	What's in a Name?

She woke slowly, taking stock of her hröa piece by piece, wondering if she was different, now, in some way. Her limbs felt languid, heavy with sleep, still, a light soreness between her legs that was new, but not painful; a small reminder of the night’s activities. They still felt like her limbs, though, strong and muscular, capable of all she asked of them.

The difference was more subtle than that; threads spun from living flame, wrapping around strands made of her favourite marble, mingling together until they were one – _connected_ – _love_.

She could feel fingers – _his fingers, calloused from forge-work, and familiar even if they had not touched her so before_ – tracing shapes across her skin. Drawing invisible lines between her stars - imaginary constellations, she thought, a small smile stretching her lips.

“Good morning, _husband_ ,” she teased, opening one eye when her wry voice stopped the soft touch in its tracks, as though she wasn’t meant to have noticed.

“Good morning,” he croaked, clearing his throat before naming her, “ _wife_.” His fingers pressed lightly into her skin at the thought; pleased yet still oddly surprised by the title. Or perhaps, surprised by her acceptance, she thought, opening her eye fully. He was good-looking; she had known that, before, of course – had watched him more than once, bared to the waist when he worked in her father’s forge, or stripped entirely for a leisurely swim – but it was different, somehow, now that all that skin was _hers_ to look at, as boldly as she pleased.

“What are you doing?” she murmured, half a plea to keep going, keep touching until the fire they had kindled last night, embers still waiting to burst into vivid bright flame once more, caught in her skin and turned her bones liquid. Much to her surprise, the fingers withdrew entirely, a warm flush bringing colour to his cheeks as he bit his lip indecisively. Thinking about it, she ran through the small touches in her mind, his fascination at once obvious and enough to make her cheeks colour. “If you call it a fated match, I will hurt you,” she threatened, falling back onto the pillows and covering the skin on her upper left shoulder with her hand, her eyes narrowed in a light glare. More than one friend or kinsman had said as much, agreeing with Indis’ amused exclamation when she was getting dressed for the wedding feast, and it was not a pleasing thought. _She_ chose him, as _he_ chose her – nothing fated about it. Fëanáro’s blush only deepened, his eyes flicking to the skin she was hiding and away again, like he didn’t mean to be caught looking.

A flash of knowledge appeared in her mind, then, bright as lightning.

“Fëanáro,” she said, letting go of herself to take his hand, trace those strong digits with her own, splaying his fingers and enjoying the way they looked next to her own paler skin. “Did you choose the shape of the letter F because the stars in my skin have that form?” It seemed improbable – he had invented his writing system long before she realised he might feel more for her than friendship – but as she spoke the words, she knew them to be the truth.

He nodded slowly, not meeting her eyes, his eyes fixed on their entwined hands. Suddenly, the memory of Indis’ bright chuckle – not cruel, but still – faded entirely, subsumed by a powerful need to kiss the light sorrow from his face.

It was not the reaction he’d expected, clearly, losing his balance and falling back onto the bed, her right hand still twined with his left even as his free arm wrapped around her back, returning her kisses eagerly.

“Too clever, my Nerdanel,” he whispered, smiling. She kissed his nose, feeling laughter spilling into her soul, brightening his eyes. “Too clever, my wife.” Bending his head, Fëanáro kissed the stars that made up the shape of the first letters of both their names, the fire kindling between them once more when she nipped the tip of his ear lightly.

 

“Nerdanel…?” she asked, much later, her head resting on his chest, listening to the sound of his heart beating.

“My name for you,” he replied softly, “if you’ll have it.” The fingers that had been drawing absent-minded circles on her stomach abruptly stilled, tension thrumming through him. Turning her head, she pressed a kiss to his jaw.

“Nerdanel… I like it.”


End file.
